


Distraction

by Mango_Cult



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Hair-pulling, I regret pressing the hair pulling tag, I swear it's not smut, I used pronouns for him, Just a vent fic :[, Relapse, TW // hair pulling, Trichotillomania, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:33:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mango_Cult/pseuds/Mango_Cult
Summary: He loves his hair, then why?~~~Or, in which Wilbur feels guilty but can't stop his habit.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is a vent fic. Tw for hair pulling. I did not use his name once in this, just pronouns. Uhm, yeah, that's basically it :)
> 
> Also this was really quickly written and not beta read

He loved his hair, he really did. He loved the way it curled down his face and bobbed up and down as he moved. He loved when people complimented the rich brown colour of his hair. He really did. 

It started the night the war began. His fingers, desperate to grip onto something, to ground himself, had found themselves in his hair. His beautiful hair. He looked at it, when he noticed the tip of the strand about to break off. So he tugged it lightly, and it broke off. It was something he could do for a while, though, he noticed another thing. As much as he took care of his hair, there were still split ends. Split ends. They could keep him busy for a while. 

So he pulled them apart. The satisfying way the strand of hair ripped apart was comforting to him. Now it was only one singular strand. It looked more natural he presumed. So he continued, going from one hair strand to the next, finding more and more along the way. They looked better like that. It was a small habit. 

The next few months were spent digging him hands into his hair, pulling apart split ends that stood out. It felt good. So, so good. He would catch some eyes drifting over to him, but he would quickly cover it up by brushing his hand through his hair. It was addicting. It kept him busy from the war. Something he could do by himself to make him happy. It was just something to do for fun, nothing bad would ever come out of it, right? 

It wasn't supposed to end up like this. 

Though a day came where he got pissed off at a strand and pulled it out. The pure euphoria he felt when tugging it out felt amazing. He did it again. The rush of relief he felt as he tugged out the bad hair. He pulled out the hairs with split ends. Now no one had to see it anymore, and now his hair was perfect. The imperfections would be pulled outs that's all there was to it. 

He stayed up all night that day, digging around his hair to find split ends, pulling them apart, and tugging them out once he was done with them. The rush of happiness he felt was amazing. So he did it again, and again, and again. 

It had been a month since he started tugging his hair out. The elections rolled around the corner. The hair pulling only got worse. The hairs that grew back were always too thin. Always growing weirdly. Always had split ends. So he pulled the new hairs as well. He kept pulling and pulling and pulling. Every moment he could get alone to himself, he focused and pulled.

Until he was banished from his own nation.

Hair pulling momentarily forgotten, he ran. Running was all he could do at the moment. 

When he built a new nation, the stress bit back at him. The adrenaline of being recently kicked out wore off and he returned to the only thing he could do. Hair pulling. It was his only distraction from the fighting, so he continued. 

Months passed in the caves. He started wearing his beanie more often. 

His brothers questioned him about it, but he brushed it off saying it was "too cold" or "I'm having a bad hair day". They didn't question him further. But the moment he took his beanie off in the makeshift bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror, the only thing he could notice was the angry red spots on his scalp, baby hairs surrounding the area. What happened? It was such a small habit. How did it lead up to this? 

He sobbed in the bathroom silently that day. His hair, once perfect and pretty, now a mess of thinning hairs, split ends, and hairs that grew in weirdly. He missed his old hair, but he couldn't stop. 

He remembers him grabbing a small chunk of hair and pulling it, liking the satisfying pops it made as it was pulled out of its scalp. He wanted to stop, he really did.

He would spend hours just focusing on pulling the hairs out. Naturally his brothers picked up on his habit, but he would just turn away from them, holding his beanie down closer to his head. If they found out what he did they'd surely be disappointed.

But he continued to pull. Though the pulling didn't stop at his scalp. It pulled from his eyebrows, eyelashes, arms and legs. Anywhere there was hair, he'd pull. It hurt. It hurt a lot, but he couldn't stop. 

He wish he could.


End file.
